My nephew crawled seven blocks on a broken leg because there was no food for his little sister, but what he said about the man inside their apartment was even worse.

I did not want to go.

I needed to go.

Marlene stayed at the hospital with the children under police protection. Denise had already begun emergency kinship paperwork for me, and the hospital would not release Bodie until his leg was splinted and a follow-up with orthopedics was scheduled. June had eaten breakfast twice and then fallen asleep with her cheek pressed to my purse.

Before we left, Marlene grabbed my sleeve.

“If the coffee can is gone,” she said, “look in the vent behind Bodie’s bed.”

“You hid two sets?”

She looked embarrassed, as if preparation was something to apologize for. “Bodie hid the second one.”

Officer Hensley’s eyes softened. Mine burned.

The apartment building on Maple was exactly as I remembered and worse. Beige siding stained by weather, broken blinds in half the windows, two shopping carts tipped near the dumpster, the permanent smell of old grease and cigarettes in the stairwell. Marlene’s door was on the second floor, near a flickering hallway light.

The lock was broken.

Officer Hensley noticed before I did. He held up one hand, motioning for me to stay back. Another officer, a woman named Ruiz, came up the stairs behind us.

They entered first.

“Clear,” Officer Hensley called after a minute.

I stepped inside.

I had been to Marlene’s apartment before, but not recently. The last time, she had made excuses at the door. June was napping. Bodie had a stomach bug. Travis was sleeping. The place was a mess.

Now I understood why she had not let me in.

The living room was not just messy. It was stripped down in a way that felt punishing. No toys on the floor. No children’s drawings on the fridge. No little shoes by the door. The curtains were nailed over the windows. The television was cracked. A brown stain spread across the carpet near the coffee table.

The kitchen made Officer Ruiz curse under her breath.

A bicycle lock ran through the fridge handles.

Cabinets were padlocked.

There was one box of cereal on top of the refrigerator, out of a child’s reach, and two empty beer cans in the sink.

I thought of June eating crackers so fast she gagged.

I gripped the counter.

“Ms. Grady?” Officer Hensley said.

I nodded and pointed under the sink.

The loose panel was there. The coffee can was not.

My throat tightened.

“He found it.”

“Check the vent,” Officer Hensley said.

Bodie and June’s bedroom was small, with two mattresses on the floor and a plastic dresser missing two drawers. Bodie’s bed had a faded dinosaur blanket. June’s had a pink sheet with cartoon moons. Both were made neatly, too neatly for children.

The vent was behind Bodie’s mattress.

Officer Ruiz unscrewed it with a tool from her belt. Behind the metal grate was a plastic freezer bag wrapped in a T-shirt.

Inside were photos, papers, a cheap flash drive, and an old prepaid phone.

Officer Hensley looked at me. “Did you know about any of this?”

“No.”

He bagged the items carefully.

I turned toward the hallway. “Where’s the utility closet?”

Neither officer answered, but both followed me.

It was near the washer, just like Bodie said. A narrow door painted the same dull white as the wall. A new slide bolt had been installed high on the outside, far above a child’s reach. Below it were scrape marks.

Small ones.

At about Bodie’s height.

Officer Ruiz photographed everything.

I stood there, unable to breathe.

Then I saw the sticker.

A tiny blue star stuck near the bottom corner of the door, peeling at one edge. Bodie loved stickers. When he was four, he stuck them everywhere—on my sofa, my bathroom mirror, the passenger window of my car. Marlene used to fuss, but I never did. I always said a house with children should look like children had been there.

This star was crooked, pressed into the wood from the inside crack, as if a little hand had found one small way to prove he existed.

I crouched.

There were more marks near the floor.

Not words exactly.

Lines.

Bodie had scratched them into the paint.

Officer Hensley crouched beside me.

At first I thought they were random. Then I understood.

Tall line. Short line. Short line.

A count.

“How many?” Officer Ruiz asked quietly.

I could not answer.

Officer Hensley did.

“Twenty-seven.”

Twenty-seven times.

Maybe twenty-seven nights.

Maybe twenty-seven punishments.

Maybe twenty-seven times a six-year-old boy had counted the dark until morning.

A voice came from the apartment doorway.

“You finally seeing it?”

We all turned.

An elderly woman stood there holding a laundry basket against one hip. She was tiny, maybe eighty, with white hair braided down her back and eyes sharp as broken glass.

Officer Ruiz stepped forward. “Ma’am, this is an active scene.”

“I know what it is,” the woman said. “I called three times. Nobody came when it mattered.”

Officer Hensley straightened. “Your name?”

“Gloria Alvarez. Apartment 2B.” She looked at me. “You’re the aunt.”

“Yes.”

“You should’ve come sooner.”

The words hit exactly where guilt already lived.

Then Mrs. Alvarez’s face softened by one inch. “But you’re here now.”

She set the laundry basket down. Under the towels was a manila envelope.

“I recorded him,” she said. “Through the wall. The screaming. The locks. The little boy begging for water.” Her mouth tightened. “I’m old, not useless.”

Officer Ruiz took the envelope.

Mrs. Alvarez looked toward the utility closet.

“The boy used to sing to the little one in there,” she said. “Soft. Same song every time.”

“What song?” I asked.

Mrs. Alvarez’s eyes filled.

“You Are My Sunshine.”

I leaned one hand against the wall.